


Under the Mistletoe

by SassyEggs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, I Tried, I tried really hard, birthday fic, im so sorry, merry christmas y'all, this is what you get
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21851848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/pseuds/SassyEggs
Summary: A holiday tradition leads to something he wasn't expectingHappy Birthday Jillypups!!!
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 56
Kudos: 218





	Under the Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jillypups](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jillypups/gifts).



> Okay so I really really really wanted this to be fantastic for a fantastically talented lady, but alas, this is what you get instead. Happy Birthday Jillypups! Love you!

_ “‘Come to the party, Sansa. It won’t be the same without you, Sansa.’” _

It was really no surprise to find herself in that exact scenario, miserable and muttering as she made her way to the exit of the Casterly Rock Country Club. She’d never even wanted to attend the Lannister’s annual Christmas Ball-- an event that the press always covered, an event the Starks usually went to, an event Sansa would have loved to skip. But Margaery had begged her, and Margaery was her very best friend in the entire world. 

But Margaery was also dating the very same man Sansa used to date. 

Sansa never could say no to Margaery, though, even when it was in her best interest, and in the end she had agreed to make an appearance. But standing alone at the black-tie affair left her feeling awkward and dumb; people smiled at her, sure, but no one really  _ talked  _ to her, and it didn’t take long for her to regret coming.

Things only got worse when Joffrey (that little shit) had shocked them all by publicly asking for Margaery’s hand in marriage, the crowd ooohing in delight as flashbulbs burst all around them. Sansa smiled brightly at her best friend when their eyes met, clapped along like she was supposed to though the truth was her stomach was curdling. 

And then somehow things got worse. 

How many faces had turned towards her, how many sympathetic expressions? People she didn’t even know were ogling her, looking for some despondent reaction she wasn’t feeling, had never felt, would never feel. It was enough to make her skin crawl and flee from the crowded ballroom, head held high. 

And now it seemed  _ someone _ had thrown her purse up on the top shelf of the coatroom, far too high for her to reach it. Or at least, she was pretty sure she couldn’t reach. Carefully she went to her tiptoes, stretched for the strap dangling over the edge, strained her fingers upwards… nope, definitely couldn’t reach. She would have to get help. 

Fortunately, she knew exactly where to find it. 

She’d seen him lingering near the back of the ballroom all evening, hands in the pocket of his tux and looking as out-of-place as she felt. She’d never approached him, though-- she never could talk to him without some concrete reason, and ‘boredom’ didn’t sound good enough. But ‘short’ sure did. 

“Hey,” she said, touching his elbow to get his attention. When he turned to look at her it was with an expression like he thought she’d gotten lost, and she almost-- almost-- retreated. Instead she bit the bullet and took the plunge. “Will you help me get my purse, please? Someone threw it on the top shelf in the cloak room.” 

“Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know,” she shook her head, though the memory of all those sympathetic faces underlined  _ exactly  _ why someone would do that. 

The thing about Sandor Clegane was that most of the time when she was around him it felt like something was  _ between  _ them, like maybe they could  _ be  _ something. If only he would try. Other times, though, he acted like she annoyed him. This was one of the latter times. She was just about to babble out an excuse when he huffed a weary, grumbly sigh of defeat.

“Alright, lead the way.” 

She did, led him towards the entrance of the country club, him into the cloakroom, past the initial nook and deep into the farthest recesses where only one dim bulb lit the way. 

“Right there,” she said, pointing. “You can see the strap hanging down.”

And just as suspected, her knight in black polyester pulled the purse down with no problems whatsoever, handing it to her with a reproachful look like it was somehow her fault she was born shorter than him. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled sheepishly, and then “oh!” 

Over his head-- over both of their heads-- hung a sprig of mistletoe, tied with a simple white ribbon to the closet light. He turned to look at where she was pointing, his expression rolling from bored to confused to cynical, lip curling into a sneer... till he caught her eye and realized her intentions. Both brows shot up in surprise.

“It’s tradition,” she shrugged, as if that explained everything. 

“A  _ stupid _ tradition,” he countered, though it sounded almost like a question. 

“Still a tradition.”

He didn’t say anything more, only peered down at her, weighing her words. The timing was critical here, she knew that-- she had to make it clear she wanted it before he had another chance to protest. So before he could overthink it she stepped towards him, lifted her chin as casually as possible to let him know she meant it. 

For the first time ever he didn’t argue with her, didn’t complain, didn’t dodge or evade. For the first time ever he followed her lead and let her win-- by bending down and giving her a kiss. 

At first it was laughably chaste, just his lips against hers and almost no movement at all. But she didn’t pull away, and neither did he, and that was all she needed to step closer, to open her mouth and ask for a little more. To  _ give  _ a little more. 

There was no point in thinking after that, not with the sudden energy snapping between them. Instinct had her winding arms around his neck, pressing against him and the thumping of his heart, earning her a low, almost-carnal groan and a deeper kiss. A hand was in her hair then, another at her back, she wanted to wrap her legs around him, pull him in as close as possible.

His touch was gentle but desperate, firm caresses over her hips and up her back, fingers curling at the nape of her neck, and she wished she’d worn a low-cut dress so she could have more of those kisses in more interesting places. But things had already gotten out of hand; she needed to get control before it went any further. 

“Sandor,” she gasped, pulling away from his kiss. His mouth trailed down her neck, nibblng at her ear, and she almost,  _ almost _ , forgot what she needed to say. “Sandor,  _ stop.”  _

His arms shot straight up; Sansa slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“Door,” she said with emphasis, pulled him by the tie for a quick but intense kiss before sending him to tend to the task. She’d barely turned around when he was back.

“Doesn’t lock.”

“So put something in front of it.”

A nod and he was off again while Sansa quickly dug through the farthest coat rack, flipping through wools and foxes and mink till she came across Cersei’s Stella McCartney. She’d known exactly what she wanted to do to that coat since the second she’d laid eyes on it. 

By the time he returned she was busy spreading the faux fur out on the floor, and for a moment he gaped at her, a question right there on his lips. She distracted him by handing him a condom. 

“You’ll have to be fast.”

He smirked. “I can do that.”

And then she was in his arms again, the gentle hands of only a minute ago now greedily wandering over her, pressing her to him, his mouth hard against hers. 

_ Hurry.  _

She pulled his shirt from his trousers, let her fingers trace the lines of his back, to absorb his heat below his waistband. Could he tell how badly she wanted him? God, she hoped so.

_ Quickly. _

They didn’t stop kissing when he lifted her, laid her gently on the fur at their feet and took his place, the weight of his body stealing her breath in more ways than one. 

_ Faster.  _

He faltered only once-- when his hands slid up her thighs and he realized she was completely naked down there. She kissed him harder, slipped her fingers under his waistband to the heat beneath while he slipped his fingers into her. He didn’t even seem surprised to find her so ready. 

_ She  _ faltered only when he pulled away and the tiniest details became so visceral-- metal against leather when his belt was undone, foil being ripped open, plush fur against her bare bottom and her legs splayed wide… it was suddenly so real, and she was suddenly doubtful. But his eyes held enough doubt for the both of them; she would have to be certain, for the both of them. 

“Come here,” she whispered, looped her arms up around his shoulders, pulled him closer so that when he finally pushed inside her it was something they did together.    
  
Sansa let her eyes close, let him coax every little breathless gasp from her as the world slipped away. And for just a few moments it was just the two of them, just his body and his affection and the steady push and pull of him that grew slower, then deeper, till he shuddered against her, groaning into her hair. 

It was far, far too brief, and that was the truth. But it was everything she ever wanted, and that was the truth as well. 

“That  _ was _ fast,” she panted, amused; he huffed behind her ear, too weary for real laughter. 

“I don’t think that’s how the tradition works.”

“No, I don’t suppose it is,” she agreed, fingers playing with his hair till he pushed up on an elbow to look at her, the simple movement reminding her that they couldn’t linger. His eyes were glassy and guileless, and when she stroked her hand down his cheek he didn’t pull away. 

“What kind of idiot hangs mistletoe in a cloakroom, anyway?” 

Sansa winced. “Same kind of idiot who throws her own purse up where she can’t reach it?”

He froze, the open expression gone. She’d always intended to confess her ulterior motive eventually; she just didn’t plan to do it like this. And now the wheels were turning inside his head, churning towards the only possible conclusion. 

“So... your purse?”

“I did that.”

“And… the mistletoe?”

“I did that, too.”

“And your underwear?”

“In my purse,” she laughed; she  _ knew _ he’d been wondering about that. “What can I say- you’re a hard man to get through to.”

He shook his head, confused. “Didn’t realize you were trying.”

Now it was  _ her  _ turn to give  _ him  _ a reproachful look. 

“When we were playing basketball at Joff’s apartment that one time and I wrapped my arms around you, what did you do?”

“I called a foul.” 

“When I saw you out on your birthday and told you I’d give you  _ anything  _ you wanted, what did you ask for?”

“A glass of water.”

“And when I suggested we go to this dumb party together, what did you say?”

“That I don’t need a babysitter. I don’t get it.”

“I know you don’t. Cause you’re a hard man to get through to.”

Lord but she had  _ tried  _ to get through to that man. It had always been so easy for her in the past-- to drop a subtle hint and let someone  _ else  _ make the first move-- but with him none of her messages landed no matter how fine a point she put on them. In the end she knew it was up to her to make it happen, but that final step was terrifying-- as hard as it was for him to believe she might be sincere in her interest, it was harder for her to seal the deal. 

So she did what she had to, in the only way she knew how-- by making it easy for him. 

“So it wasn’t because…” he began, his suspicion trailing off before he could voice it though she knew what he was going to say. 

“No. And I sure wish people would stop thinking I care.”

She hoped he could see that she meant it, thought maybe he could. When she reached up to brush his hair from his eyes he leaned into her touch… then jumped when the cloakroom door slammed into the heavy rack he’d locked into place in front of it, muffled complaints drifting in from the other side. 

“Fuck. Come on, hurry.” 

It didn’t take long to get dressed since they’d barely gotten  _ un _ dressed, only a second for him to zip and buckle while she hung Cersei’s freshly-christened faux fur coat back up on the rack. She left her underwear in her purse. 

“You go first,” he told her; she rolled her eyes. 

“We’ll go  _ together.”  _

In the end, though, no one was in the lobby when they nonchalantly strolled out of the cloakroom, not a soul to witness their sneaky, giggly whispers as they hurried outside, nobody to see them walk side by side down the steps towards the parking lot. Still, her cheeks burned. She’d just had sex with this man; the memory, brief as it was, had her feeling flushed and needy. 

“Hey,” she said, and took him by the elbow again. And he looked down at her again, showed her a withering look again, had her feeling like she annoyed him. Again. And she didn’t really feel like playing that same game again. 

“Would you like to go back to my place and have more sex?”

Those brows shot up, just as surprised as last time. But this time she didn’t have to push him for more. This time he reached for her first, pulled her close and brushed his lips against hers.

“I thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
